King stared at Jintao, who stared back.

“The question, Mr. Ambassador,” said King, with anger in his voice, “is not whether China was behind the assassination of our national security advisor. The question is, what the fuck is China going to do about it?”

Jintao remained calm.

“What do you mean, ‘What is China going to do about it?’” asked Jintao.

“I mean, what are you going to do about it? Simple fucking question. Hu-Shao was a high-level MSS operative. He killed Jessica Tanzer. This is an act of war.”

Jintao nodded, not in agreement but out of respect, acknowledging he had heard King’s words and was not ignoring them. But he said nothing.

“Do you deny it, Mr. Ambassador? Is that what you’re going to try and do? Deny this guy worked for you? Or maybe he was rogue, off on his own? Is that it?”

Jintao’s smile transformed into a kind, if icy stare.

“No, I don’t deny it,” said Jintao.

King stared, incredulous, at Jintao.

“As you said,” continued Jintao, “let’s dispense with the pleasantries, cut the bullshit, as you say.”

King leaned forward.

“Okay. Go.”

“You know as well as I do why he was there,” said Jintao. “Hu-Shao was part of a three-man team sent in for Andreas. Unfortunately, Jessica was shot by accident. She was not the intended target. Andreas was. I am being honest with you, Adrian. Do you think we would intentionally harm America’s national security advisor?”

“You did harm her,” yelled King. “You killed her.”

“Yes, we killed her. But it was an accident. And, yes, Premier Li will be coming to the funeral, but not because you threatened him, something which I did not pass on to him when we spoke. That would have only inflamed the situation.”

King sat back in his large red leather chair. Jintao’s honesty had caught him off guard. King had expected him to deny it, then to bow out, tail between his legs, and, ultimately, to help broker the deal that would appease an angry president and an even angrier chief of staff, not to mention CIA director.

“You are to leave the United States by tomorrow night,” said King. “All embassy staff are to leave America. The PRC mission to the United Nations, all staff, as well as any PRC regional missions located in U.S. territory: out. Then we’ll discuss what happens with China. At the very minimum, Fao Bhang is to be turned over to authorities for prosecution at The Hague, along with any ministry staff involved in Jessica Tanzer’s death. Do I make myself clear, Ambassador Jintao?”

“Perfectly clear,” said Jintao. “But there is one problem.”

“What is that?” asked King, leaning forward.

“China has no intention of withdrawing from the United States, nor of turning over Minister Bhang.”

King was starting to feel a little nervous.

“Mr. Ambassador, your diplomatic missions that are within U.S. sovereign territory are the purview of this country and, specifically, the president of the United States. I was with him approximately half an hour ago. Not only does he want you out of the country, I had to fight to get an extra day for you and your people. President Dellenbaugh wants you gone.”

Jintao smiled.

“I certainly understand,” said Jintao. “And I would never want to imply that our presence in your country is anything less than a privilege, determined and decided by your president. If you want us gone, we will be gone. Indeed, if President Dellenbaugh wants me gone today, that is something that could be arranged. But…”

King stared.

“But what?” he snapped.

“But then, who will buy the five hundred billion dollars’ worth of U.S. Treasury bonds which the People’s Bank of China is being asked to buy? And, in six months, when Secretary Uhlrich comes to us yet again with his hat in his hand and asks us to buy another trillion dollars’ worth of bonds, as he has already informed us he will do, what will happen then?”

King’s face flushed red. He sat back, loosened his tie, then ran his right hand back through his hair.

“Premier Li, myself, even, believe it or not, Minister Bhang all regret what happened to Jessica,” continued Jintao. “Perhaps nobody more so than me. I had a close relationship with Jessica, closer than anybody else in my government. I sincerely liked her. It is not an exaggeration to say that I’m embarrassed, and that Premier Li is embarrassed. And there will be people who suffer the consequences of this tragedy. But it will not be Fao Bhang. If you would still like China to withdraw, well, of course, we will do so immediately. But before you and your president make such a decision, I encourage you to speak with Secretary Uhlrich. You might also want to consult with the chairman of the Federal Reserve. And, while you’re at it, you should probably let your leaders in Congress know.”

“Know what?” whispered King, furious now.

“Let them know China will not be in a position to lend the United States another trillion and a half dollars. As they will no doubt tell you, without that money, the government of the United States will have to shut down, or, of course, you could stop paying Social Security benefits, or paying your hardworking U.S. soldiers, or paying hospital bills for the elderly. I could go on.”

“Fuck you,” said King.

Jintao stood.

“Is that your answer?” asked Jintao.

“That’s a question for the president,” said King. “The fuck you was from me.”

47

UPPER PHILLIMORE GARDENS

KENSINGTON

LONDON

Karina, one of Borchardt’s servants, led Dewey through a small door at the back of the library, which fed into a thin, windowless servants’ hallway. At the end of the hallway was a curving iron stairwell.

At the third floor, Karina led Dewey down a long corridor. She opened the door to a spacious bedroom, with a large living room and bathroom.

“If you need anything, please press four on your telephone, Mr. Andreas,” said Karina. “That will ring someone in the service wing.”

“Thank you.”

The bed was massive, with a large white canopy draped overhead. Two large windows looked over the gardens at the back of the house. A crowd of at least two hundred mingled in the gardens. Music drifted up to the window. Dewey opened one of the windows and stood watching the crowd, then yawned, raising his hands over his head. He lowered the curtain, shutting out any outside light.

He drained the last of the whiskey, went into the bathroom, stripped off his clothes, and took a shower. He brushed his teeth, then climbed into bed and turned out the lights.

*   *   *

Sūn Mă had removed his tuxedo jacket. He paced Borchardt’s basement security room. Two of Borchardt’s security men were seated, monitoring video screens. Standing behind them was another man. He was short, wiry, crew-cut, young, and Chinese. He was dressed in black tactical military clothing. This was the lead MSS agent in London, one of the ministry’s top assassins in all of Europe.

The agent stood, arms crossed, behind the seated security men. His eyes darted about the panoply of screens, keeping an eye on Dewey’s bedroom while also monitoring the party, which was beginning to thin out.

“You need to go,” said Mă, speaking in Mandarin to the agent. “Now. The chances of being seen are practically nonexistent.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” the agent responded, without moving his eyes from the screen, “if I need your advice, I will ask for it.”

The agent stared at a pair of screens that displayed the terrace. A small crowd continued to hover near a fountain.

*   *   *

In the alley behind Borchardt’s mansion, a white truck was parked. On its side was written MAYFAIR & LIME CATERING CO. LTD.

Inside sat four MSS agents, awaiting the go from the agent in the basement.

Each man wore the same black tactical military outfit, running shoes, and clutched automatic weapons—close-quarters combat submachine guns, with suppressors screwed into the muzzles.